


Crossed swords

by Kaz_Langston



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: BAMF Jaskier | Dandelion, Gen, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:20:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23948293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaz_Langston/pseuds/Kaz_Langston
Summary: Geralt's determined that travelling with him won't put the bard at risk. Much to Jaskier's dismay, he gets lessons, and unfortunately he's forced to use them.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 14
Kudos: 315





	Crossed swords

**Author's Note:**

> Oh hey new fandom. I am fickle. Whoops. The grumpy one was soft for the sunshine one, and I'm WEAK for that. 
> 
> Minimal canon knowledge, sorry not sorry.

Jaskier woke to a quick thudding beat and low grunting that initially made him think that Geralt was taking advantage of the early morning for a quick wank, then reconsidered his assumption at the faint metallic chime of steel being whipped through the air.

He rolled over, poking tousled hair out of the bedroll, only moving enough to let heavy eyes peer out into the chill of the autumn morning. It would be warm later, but in the early dawn there was a sweet dew across everything and he fancied he could see his breath.

For a big man, Geralt moved terrifyingly quietly, barely crushing the leaf litter despite his huge boots. Unarmoured but sword in hand, the witcher was wheeling and spinning in some complicated, lethal looking dance on the other side of the clearing, moving in and away from a lone tree that seemed to be serving as a sparring partner, though it didn't look to be putting up much of a fight.

"What did that tree ever do to you," Jaskier asked muzzily, hitching the bedroll down just low enough to speak and then tucking himself snugly back inside.

Geralt didn't pause until a final violent lunge had the poor tree in its death throes, or at least would have done if the sword had done anything more impolite than graze the pale bark.

When he turned back to the snuggled up bard there was a glint in his eyes which, though they'd not been travelling together long, threatened chores and hard work and things that certainly weren't lying abed while the morning warmed up enough to justify a quick strip wash in the nearby stream.

"Oh no, I don't like that look." Jaskier burrowed back into the warmth, tucking it back over his head, and spoke into the depths of the bedroll. "I'm sleeping, go away."

A rough hand tugged at the cover but he refused to relinquish it, and apparently neither witcher strength nor persistence could be compared to the stubborn laziness of a bard.

A low rumble reached his ears. "Breakfast. Or you'll go without."

That worked rather better, and Jaskier emerged from his hibernation, yawning obnoxiously as he stretched. "Eggs, perhaps? Roast suckling pig? Fresh pears, shipped across the continent to our outstretched hands?" He yelped as something struck him on the chest, and fumbled before it dropped to the floor. "Oh, last week's bread. An equally auspicious meal, I suppose, though-" Geralt, busy breaking camp, held out a fist wrapped around a small bag without bothering to look round, "- some dried fruit would be a delightful addition. Thank you, Geralt, that's very good of you."

The witcher didn't bother responding, and Jaskier inhaled the bread and sweet fruits as quickly as a man who remembered travelling alone and hungry could manage.

"We'll make it there today?" He squeezed out between bites.

"No. Tomorrow noon."

"Good." Jaskier eyed the last of the bread dubiously, but bit at it all the same. "I think it's time we stocked up on a few things."

An agreeable sounding grunt.

"They're a good lot there, should get a decent welcome." Better than the last place, run out before they'd had a chance to spend the fee from Geralt's hunt, or the little coin Jaskier had managed to drum up in the tavern. He's still working on new pieces, and "toss a coin" hadn't gone down well with the distrustful villagers. Still, can't win them all. "I wonder if that lovely blonde barmaid still works at the Golden Horn..."

They set off with little fanfare, Jaskier cheerfully following in Geralt's silent wake. He stuck to humming while the day warmed around them, but after a while the thin sunlight warmed the air enough to pull out the lute and start strumming.

When they settled down for camp it was still early, the sun still high enough in the sky for even human eyesight to notice rabbit droppings on thin paths through nearby undergrowth. "Dinner?" Jaskier suggested hopefully.

"Get the fire going."

It took more effort for Jaskier to light the fire with flint and steel than it would have done Geralt, but the witcher's return with a brace of plump brown rabbits was enough to stifle any complaints.

Filled with lean rabbit meat, and daydreaming about the adoring reception he was sure to receive at the tavern, Jaskier didn't stir when Geralt left the fire.

"Up."

Jaskier blinked up at the witcher as he towered above him. "Sorry?"

"If you're going to travel with me, you'll need to learn to fight. I make you a target. Get up."

The bard snorted, wriggling a little to settle himself more comfortably against the fallen tree. "When have I needed anything other than my words or my undoubtedly pretty face to get me - us! - out of trouble?"

A stony face and the tiniest twitch of an eyebrow was his only response. "I accept that _maybe_ there was that one gentleman who may have slightly misunderstood my intentions towards his lovely lady, but surely you can hardly blame me for thinking she'd been heartlessly abandoned-" A heavy, heartless boot nudged his hip none too gently. "Alright, alright! Gods."

On his feet, he was met with the sight of Geralt wielding both his swords, one in each hand.

"Ah, Geralt, this seems a little one sided..." Not that it would be anything other than one sided even if it was Jaskier with two swords, with Geralt unarmed and one hand tied behind his back.

A neat twitch of the wrist, and the hilt of the steel sword protruded towards him. He offered a nervous smile but Geralt didn't capitulate.

"Very well." He straightened his back and stepped forward, wrapping his hand around the grip of it before Geralt let go. When he did, the tip of it drooped heavily towards the ground. "Gods this is _heavy_!" Still, no bard who manages hours of performing on top of a day's walk could be unfit, and he was able to hold it steady once he gave into the temptation to switch to a two handed grip.

A long forgotten body memory of sword training came back to him, and he settled his feet, rolling his shoulders back, before offering Geralt a bright grin. "What do you think? Do I look threatening? Dashing, perhaps?"

"You've done this before."

"Of course I've done this before! Not that I was very good at it, mind you." He lowered the sword enough that the tip rested on the ground, mind already wandering. "Back when I was very young. No noble boy grows up without learning some swordsmanship."

Geralt looked mildly disgruntled at having the winds smacked from his sails. "Then this is just practice."

"Exactly! Ready when you are, witcher." Jaskier braced himself, rocking his weight forward on his toes and lifting the sword into an approximation of a guard.

Geralt hefted his own sword, the bright gleaming silver of it catching the light of the fire and suddenly giving Jaskier the urge to grab his lute and compose, something about heat and eyes and sharp edged warriors.

Unfortunately Jaskier's stance fell apart the instant Geralt stepped forward, sword swinging uselessly from side to side as the bright silver flickered overhead.

He yelped, more in surprise than any real fear, stumbling backwards as he tried to raise the heavy sword to deal with the high blow, all but tripping over his own feet. Exasperated, Geralt halted his downward swing, letting the weapon fall harmlessly to the side. "How many of these lessons did you say you had?"

With a dispirited twist to his face, Jaskier admitted, "Certainly not as many as my father would have liked. It clashed with the master singer's performances and quite honestly that seemed like a rather better use of my time."

"Hmm." That short response seemed to cover a multitude of things regarding Jaskier's poor priorities, while simultaneously passing judgement on his swordsmanship and perhaps his parentage to boot.

"And those were with a rapier, anyway," he added sulkily. "Not this great heavy thing."

Geralt studied him for a second, taking in the sad, wilted posture and low sword tip. "Perhaps a rapier would suit you better. More... bardic."

Jaskier beamed, suddenly enraptured with the idea of carrying something thin and elegant. "We can visit the weaponsmith when we reach town." His mind was already off, thinking of jewel encrusted pommels and a delicate filigree guard.

Geralt nodded and lifted his own sword again. "We train with these for now."

"Wait - what? I thought..." Jaskier sighed. From Geralt's expression there was little point in arguing. "Very well. I suppose it's rather homoerotic, swinging our swords at each other," he attempted, at least hoping for a little lightening of the mood. Geralt grunted at him.

As it turned out, it was very much not erotic. It was hard, sweaty work, and he spent most of his time on his arse - and not in the way he's used to. The doublet was shed after minutes as his cheeks turned pink and hair stuck to his forehead in dark unruly curls, sweat trickling down his spine.

It looked almost lazy, the laconic swinging of the silver sword with perfectly efficient movement, and yet it was still a blur each time the Witcher moved into effortless violence; Jaskier managed to defend himself occasionally but the contrast between them was all too stark.

At one point Geralt spun behind him and smacked him on the arse with the flat of the blade, a pointed reinforcement of his demand to _stop turning your back_. "You're having fun," Jaskier yelped accusingly, and Geralt just bared his teeth in a grin.

Whenever his attention slipped and the tip of the heavy blade nudged lower, Geralt slapped the flat of their swords together with an irritating chime, and by the time his arms were shaking with effort he knew he'd be hearing the sound in his nightmares.

Eventually, slumped on the floor and panting, Jaskier flapped a hand at Geralt. "I'm done. I'm just... done."

Geralt swept up the abandoned sword, and slid both of them neatly back into his pack, shaking his head. "You're hopeless."

"I'm a lover not a fighter," Jaskier offered, with a limp attempt at a winning smile.

"You'll have to be both."

Jaskier's smile broadened at that. "My dear witcher, is that a proposition?"

Not even a twitch of that pale face.

After a minute to catch his breath, he clambered to his feet with a sigh. "I have to wash. I'm all... sweaty."

The chill water of the stream where they'd filled their waterskins a long hour before was a relief on his skin, and he dunked his sweat-soaked chemise too, returning to the fire in just his trousers, water turning the waist of his trousers a dark navy instead of cheerfully bright blue.

"Three rules of fighting," Geralt rumbled out once he was settled, damp shirt draped close enough to the fire to dry by morning, unselfconscious as he lounged and absorbed the heat with a cloak around his bare shoulders.

Jaskier whined plaintively as he raised his head. "There's more?"

"There's always more. Three rules. First of all, don't fight. Get away. Run." Not a rule Geralt particularly bothered to stick to, but for the bard it would certainly be the most important.

Jaskier snorted. "Oh, I'm good at that one already."

"Second," Geralt continued undeterred, "If you can't get away, stay out of reach. Keep back from weapons or fists. Third, if you can't stay back, get in below the sword's reach. Hit hard, hit fast. Once they're disabled, get back to rule one."

"Run."

"Yes."

"That's all very sensible, Geralt, and I do appreciate you sharing your sage advice with me, but I hardly feel that's it's a treatise -"

Bright eyes scowled at him through the firelight. "This isn't a game, Jaskier! Knowing when to fight, when to move away and when to close, may well save your life."

Jaskier blinked back at him. "You make it sound like a dance."

Geralt snorted. "If you danced like you did tonight you would soon run out of partners."

*-*-*-*-*

They did indeed get a warm welcome when they strolled into the tavern the next day, or at least Jaskier did. The pretty barmaid had sadly moved on, but the innkeep remembered his performance and the good sales it had brought him, and offered him both lunch and dinner if he agreed to perform. He got a good deal on the room too, and settled in with fresh bread and cheese plus a flagon of ale to while away the afternoon and soothe his aches from his first sword lesson in years.

Geralt went straight to the alderman, and when he returned Jaskier was merry enough, careless and loud with a handful of the townspeople as he played cards. Faces darkened as he neared, though Jaskier grinned at him when he turned around. "Shouldn't turn your back," he growled lowly in his ear, and the bard snorted. "Got a contract. Back by midnight." Geralt straightened, eyed the rest of the table. No one met his gaze. "Don't cause trouble."

"As if I would!"

"Hmm."

His return, early and unbloodied, was met with a triumphant shout from Jaskier and a cheer from the crowd, before the bard launched into 'Toss a Coin' with relish. Geralt tolerated it stone faced for the jingle of coins hitting the lute case, and took his leave on the last soaring note with a nod.

Based on the absence of lute twanging and general raucousness Jaskier apparently called it a night after that, and once he'd stripped off his armour Geralt risked heading down to take his own ale. The young man had a flagon in hand, laughing uproariously, and didn't notice Geralt slip into a corner table.

Watching the bard was more than enough entertainment, the flush of a successful performance measured on his skin, but the glint of steel had him tensing. No such tension in Jaskier's face - if anything, his grin widened as he got to his feet, shoving back the stool.

Geralt settled back in his seat as small daggers changed hands and a path to the throwing board was cleared. Just darts. He'd played it himself, on occasion, but mostly with other witchers, and that was always more a competition of weaponry skill than a tavern game.

One round for fun, then as drunken men are wont to do someone shouted to up the stakes, and a handful of coppers hit the table.

Having lost the first round, though only just, Jaskier took his time for the second before gleefully snatching up the pile of coppers and half-bowing his thanks to the men. One or two expressions nudged towards anger at the _cheating bard_ , but they simmered down quickly enough at the sight of a brooding Witcher.

Jaskier slid in alongside him, nudging his arm and stealing a deep gulp of his ale. He was flushed with drink and success, eyes bright in the late night gloom. "Enough for breakfast," he bragged, hand jingling before he shoved it in his pocket. "Plus good coin from the performance too. How was the contract?"

"Short."

Jaskier laughed at him, unbothered about the lack of details, and stole another sip of ale. "You'll be delighted to hear I was on my best behaviour all evening. Not the slightest hint of trouble."

"Hmm."

"Thought darts might be a better use for my clever hands," Jaskier winked at him, wriggling his fingers.

Geralt gave him a longsuffering look, and rescued the last of his ale before the bard knocked it with an errant elbow.

*-*-*-*-*

They tracked down a weaponsmith the next day, the scent of flame and hot metal a clear signpost for Geralt's senses. Inside, racks of weaponry offered a wealth of options.

"Witcher." The greeting was wary, but respectful enough. "What would you be looking for?"

"A rapier." That seemed to surprise the man, and Geralt nodded to Jaskier. "For him."

The bard was already poking through the wares, chatting away to himself under his breath, mostly attracted to shining things with blunt edges and delicate inscriptions. His bright doublet was the only thing of colour in a room of steel.

That earned him a raise of eyebrows, but a nod with it. He pulled two thin weapons from a shelf, offering them both for inspection. Jaskier eyed them with suspicion but reached for the one with the more intricate hilt. Geralt slapped his hand away, and the bard yelped an objection before sucking at his wounded fingers with a mournful expression. Taking the less fancy sword, Geralt shook his head and handed it back. "No. Heavier."

The smith looked at Jaskier doubtfully.

"He's stronger than he looks."

The next offering was thicker, nowhere near the weight of Geralt's own swords but enough to cause damage. He took it, hefted it easily, eyed down the length of it. "Yours?"

"Every piece here, barring that last shelf."

"Hmm." He let the weapon drop. "It's good work."  
The man visibly preened. "Here. Another, same weight, a different handle that your gentleman might prefer."

 _Not mine, and certainly not a gentleman_ , but he swapped the rapier for the other one offered. Similar balance, a wider handle for the bard's long fingers. "Jaskier?"

"Yes? Oh, that looks rather dull, doesn't it? Nothing pretty about it at all. What about..." and he danced away, before picking up an elegant short sword that wouldn't look out of place at court, brandishing it with a flourish, "... this one?" It was a thin, delicate thing, the silver of it gleaming prettily, and the hilt would look quite beautiful with a leather sheath. It would quite certainly bend under the lightest blow.

"No."

The bard visibly wilted, but not for long. He took the weapon Geralt offered him, and the witcher nudged the offensive short sword out of sight behind him. The smith managed to keep a smirk from his face.

"It's, well, it's a sword, isn't it?" Jaskier offered doubtfully.

The smith had excellent control of his expression, nary a twitch.

Geralt sidestepped the waving rapier, taking Jaskier's forearm and turning it brusquely to see the shape of his grip. Uncharacteristically, Jaskier stayed silent.

"We'll take it," he said eventually, letting go of Jaskier's arm.

The haggling started as Jaskier turned away, already distracted by other wares. Geralt paused in their discussions when Jaskier picked up a thin dagger.

"I'd be a sight better with darts if I had my own daggers," he mused.

Not just darts, perhaps.

The smith paused, clearly sensing the potential for a further sale.

When they left the shop, coin purse significantly lighter, Jaskier was bubbly with excitement, touching one of the matched pair of daggers with a careless finger until - "Ow!"

A sharp copper tang, quickly muted as the bard shoved a finger in his mouth, eyes daring Geralt to say something.

He kept quiet.

*-*-*-*-*

The benefit of daggers was that they could practice in tiny rented rooms with minimal collateral damage. Still, once they were back on the road Geralt added wrestling techniques for escaping a grab, or for fighting an opponent should he be thrown to the ground. The daggers sat easier in Jaskier's hands than the rapier, and when the sword was left behind in a hurried escape from a misjudged night of passion, he didn't mourn the loss overmuch.

When they met up again after a long winter, Geralt following his ears to a crowded tavern with familiar lute music and a bawdy song, they picked up where they'd left off.

It was never a fair fight, but Jaskier at least tried, straining against Witcher strength and skill, his own wiry muscles taut, and despite his protestations he eventually mastered at least the basics.

He liked to think that at least he's a better training partner than a tree.

*-*-*-*-*

Jaskier picked irritably at his lute, the tune not settling under his fingers, the words not coming to his tongue. His performance of a new song the night before hadn't gone well, and he felt sulky with it now they'd moved on and he'd not had the chance to redeem himself.

"Training."

"I don't want to."

There was a long moment of silence as Geralt weighed commanding against cajoling. "It'll help."

Feeling perhaps a little over-dramatic Jaskier announced mournfully, "Nothing will help, I shall die of melancholia here and be food for the worms."

Geralt snorted. "Up, bard."

Infuriatingly, Geralt was right, it did help. The rush of blood as he leapt back from a slow, questioning sword swing, the thrum of his breath in his chest as he strained against an overarm grab, did more to lift his mood than any sulking might have done.

As the fire burned low, Jaskier made an obvious error, distracted by the way Geralt's pupils had widened in the gathering gloom, the way a strand of grey-white hair curled into the collar of his tunic. The witcher made it a lesson, grabbing and twisting until Jaskier was face down in the dirt, arm twisted behind him and warm breath on his neck.

Jaskier panted, body heaving under Geralt's weight until the witcher pressed further and he whimpered, stilling. They stayed frozen for a long moment until the witcher pulled away.

"Don't get distracted."

"You're very distracting," Jaskier muttered absently, before promptly turning pink.

Geralt seemed amused at that, taking it easier on him.

After a while, the blush on his cheeks was purely from exertion, embarrassment forgotten. He danced in when there was space, moved back when there wasn't, and his determination was so very endearing that Geralt felt obliged to offer a tidbit of a reward. Not that he wouldn't make the bard pay for it, of course. The Witcher whipped his sword up and left an opening, overextending on the return swing, just enough for Jaskier to dive in close and pin his sword arm to his side.

"Hah!" Jaskier exclaimed breathlessly, dagger at the witcher's neck. Geralt cocked an eyebrow at him and didn't say anything. Annoyed, Jaskier nudged it a little closer. "Yield, witcher!"

That dragged out a snort, and Geralt put up his hands, letting his sword drop harmlessly across the back of his hand as he humoured the bard. They both knew he'd only let Jaskier win, and despite his apparent loss it would only take a thought for him to regain the upper hand, but no harm in it.

"Oh, I yield." The amused tone seemed at odds with his words, and the gaze that dropped briefly, pointedly, down to Jaskier's chest gave him a flicker of uncertainty. He pulled the dagger away and looked down at his own chest.

Delicate ribbons once delightfully and intricately tied down the front of his doublet were in shreds, dangling in sad tatters from their eyelets like remnants of autumn leaves. As he stared in disbelief the last valiant tie unraveled, loose threads spooling out onto the ground.

He yelped, outraged at the mistreatment of his elegant clothes. Dropping his weapon he fumbled at his chest, pulling it apart where the rich fabric had been so cruelly wounded, but the blade hadn't so much as kissed his flesh, and his fingers met nothing but coarse hair and smooth skin.

The witcher laughed, a low rumbling thing that sounded boyish despite its depth, and shouldered his sword, heading to where his pack rested against a tree.

Jaskier scowled at the retreating back, then pressed his fingers to the bareness of his chest where the cool air licked at his skin. Violence tempered with gentle precision. Gods.

It might have cost him two crowns in ribbon - and surely he would never find quite that shade of aquamarine outside of Cintra - but perhaps it had been worth it to hear the low amusement in Geralt's voice, to see whatever it was that had danced in his honey gold eyes.

Once he could speak without his voice betraying him, he threw across the clearing, "You're an arse."

Sharp teeth glinted at him. "But an arse you've now _heroically_ bested in battle."

"I'll put that in my next ballad, just see if I don't. Heroic witcher, defeated by his many-talented bard, who magnanimously let his friend yield to his superior skill."

"I hope you leave in the bit about the doublet."

"Oh hah hah, very funny."

*-*-*-*-*

They'd followed them from just outside town, waiting for Geralt to return from his hunt slow and exhausted before ambushing them as they slept, perhaps six men in the ragtag outfits of bandits. It should have been nothing for the witcher to handle, but their first attack had been a crossbow bolt into Geralt's wide thigh as he slumped by the fire, an ugly thing that had to be tipped with nightshade or something equally nasty, leaving him unconscious but still breathing. Jaskier would surely have been long dead if it had hit him; instead he was tied up helplessly, bound hand and foot and tossed aside while the men rummaged through their belongings, head still throbbing where he'd taken a blow as he tried to run.

"Don't - hey, be _careful_ with that!" They dropped his lute on the floor and Jaskier winced. At least it was in the case, though it would need tuning at the very least.

Hands rifled through their packs, but Jaskier's attention was caught by the two men heaving Geralt's limp body around enough to be tied up far more securely than they'd bothered with the bard. One of them gave him a harsh kick to the ribs, and Jaskier yelped out a protest. Geralt didn't so much as groan. A second kick, and the bard stumbled to his feet with a shout, determined to intervene, but a quick cuff across his cheek had him tumbling back. "Stay down, boy."

Head spinning, Jaskier groaned when a foot caught him in the gut, but at least they'd stopped kicking Geralt in favour of rummaging through the packs again and brandishing a bottle of wine.

Someone yanked the cork out of the wine, spitting it aside, and took a gulp. "Cheap shit," he complained, but took a second mouthful and passed it on. Other bottles were produced from the bandits' own packs, and the men started something of a celebration at their success at subduing a Witcher. Propped against a tree, hungry and increasingly thirsty, Jaskier scowled at them between concerned glances at his unconscious friend.

One particular phrase caught his attention, one of the bandits laughing at their good fortune. "Keep the horse and sell them both. Any little lord'll take the bard, might be a bit more effort to get rid of the witcher but he'll fetch a full purse."

Hours later his legs were stiff and his mouth dry, and all the men were passed out on cheap wine and spirits. One stirred himself to head out to the woods, stumbling and swaying as he unfastened his breeches, and Jaskier watched him go with narrow eyes. On his return, he coughed a little. "Excuse me - excuse me!"

The response was slurred and unimpressed. "What?"

"I've gotta piss. Really, got to go, right now." He offered a half smile, all he could muster when inside he was seething, but tried to look as helpless as possible.

It worked, the drunken man roughly undoing the rope around his ankles before hauling him to his feet with a bruising grip around his arm. "Try anything I'll gut you, understood?" He kept a hand on his sword as he guided them a little distance away from the fire, to where the scent of urine stung at his eyes.

Jaskier bit back a whimper at the threat. "Understood. Can you, ah, untie me? It's that or undo my breeches for me, and, well, not that I'm averse to such things but it hardly seems the time-" A quick blow to his gut made him double over with a grunt, and once he gained his breath back he glared up balefully. "You'd really do that to a man who needs a piss?"

"Don't fucking run."

Rough hands unfastened the rope around his wrists, and he hissed at the burn of the blood flowing back in. Unhesitant, he fumbled at his breeches, and sighed in relief as the first splash hit the base of the tree. "Oh that's better."

The bandit stood close by, close enough to grab him if he tried to run. Jaskier shot him a look. "Don't watch! I'm hardly going to get very far." The man turned away, just a little, enough that the firelight glinted off dark eyes and perhaps, hopefully, took away enough of his night vision.

Jaskier's hand trembled as it wrapped around the dagger in his waistband, covering his movement with the tying of his breeches. All the evenings of training with Geralt suddenly seemed very far away, a different world where weaponry meant sweat and jibing and occasional laughter, not blood and fear.

As the bandit turned back, rope in hand ready to tie him back up, Jaskier burst into action. They tussled briefly, both grunting low as the weapon twisted between them, but he was drunk and taken by surprise so it was a short lived fight before Jaskier could drive the dagger towards the man's neck, pinning his sword arm. "Please don't shout," he whispered, voice cracking. "I really don't want-"

The man, barely older than Jaskier himself, took a heaving breath and opened his mouth, arm straining beneath Jaskier's hold, and with a sob Jaskier shoved the knife forward and yanked it sideways.

It took more effort than he'd thought, catching jerkily on cartilage and then suddenly blinding him with a spray of blood.

The body fell, hot rich copper drowning out the scent of piss and unwashed body, dagger still embedded in the vulnerable neck.

He stumbled back, hand to his mouth, before dropping to his knees and throwing up until all that remained was bile and aching guts.

Wiping his face with a shaking hand did him no good, the black smear of blood across the back of it a hideous reminder, and he spat on the ground to try and rid himself of the taste, desperate to look away from the body but eyes returning to it again and again.

Eventually his breathing returned to something like normal, though his heart still hammered in his chest, a caged bird desperate to escape.

Trying not to look at the dead man's eyes, wide and staring, he wrapped his hand around the hilt and pulled, biting his tongue to keep from whimpering when he had to brace against skin still warm with life to drag it out.

Swallowing hard, he wiped the blade on the ground, and though he couldn't see much the blade glinted a little more in the firelight than it had before. Trembling from limb to limb, he crept back towards the camp, circling round towards Roach to get closer to Geralt's limp body without crossing into the circle of light.

Feet light as he could manage, he slid down beside Geralt, pressing a gentle hand to the muscle of his bicep. He could feel the moment the Witcher regained consciousness, tension firming the flesh under his hand. "Shh, shh, it's me, Geralt, it's me."

Golden eyes flicked to his face and widened at the sight of him, but he didn't speak, just scanned his face intently.

"I'll untie you, keep really still."

Geralt curled forwards, and Jaskier placed a hand at his shoulder to help him up before taking both hands to gingerly cut at the rope fastening hands and arms together, unravelling it with shaking fingers as Geralt pulled away.

He handed the dagger to the Witcher who hacked carelessly at the bonds around his ankles. When he was finally crouched up on his feet he turned to Jaskier, sat frozen at his side, and raised a hand. Jaskier's eyes flicked to it, following the movement, but it only pressed slowly against his cheek, soothing him as Geralt whispered instructions. "Go back into the trees. I'll deal with them."

Jaskier nodded but didn't move. The feel of that large hand cupped around his jaw was grounding, and he had the awful feeling that if he lost that touch he would start screaming.

"Go, Jaskier!" Geralt pushed him away with a hand on his chest, and Jaskier stumbled, before turning tail and pelting for the trees.

Once he was well free of the firelight he crumpled down behind a tree, well hidden from the camp, and let the shaking of his hands reverberate into full bodied shudders as the nausea in his stomach turned to fruitless retches.

There was no sound from the camp behind him, but perhaps it was just that the rushing in his ears drowned out anything else.

He jumped when, some indeterminate time later, a flicker of movement announced Geralt crouching down at his side, a hand on his shoulder. "Jaskier. Are you injured?"

"I don't - I don't think so." He blinked. "Are they dead?"

The witcher shook his head. "Well tied. Unconscious. It's not your blood?"

Jaskier blinked. "No."

A long sigh, then Geralt took his hand. "Let's get you clean."

Though the night was dark, the moon barely a glimmer in the sky, Geralt led him unerringly to the stream where so many hours ago they had filled their waterskins. "Wash your hands, and your face."

The water was cold, but he scrubbed until he thought the stains were gone from his hands, and it stung his burning cheeks when he splashed it across his face and neck. When he finally turned to look at Geralt, a dark looming outline, the witcher stood and helped him back, the silence comforting. He dried his hands on his breeches, but water dripped from his chin as they trudged through the dark, and he brushed it away with a sleeve.

Jaskier sat close to the fire, still trembling as he stared at the flames, trying to ignore the five men whose unconscious bodies rested well out of sight, and the heavy presence of the sixth one far off in the trees. Beside him, Geralt had gathered waterskins, far more than just their own, and a clean scrap of cloth. "Hand," he commanded, and then at the lack of response just reached out and took Jaskier's left hand. Wetting the rag, he wiped away the last of the blood from the creases and crevices, drenching and wringing the rag until it ran clean, then did the same for his right hand. When that too was placed back on a silk-clad knee, Jaskier gave him a half smile, and heavy eyes softened.

The rag was rinsed again, and then a large hand cupped the back of his head, tilting it to one side as Geralt wiped gently at his face, tracing over him with awful care. "They were going to sell us," Jaskier said suddenly, and raised his eyes to meet Geralt's as the rag swept over his bruised cheekbone.

The hands didn't stop their steady movement.

"You did well, Jaskier."

He heaved a heavy sigh and closed his eyes, submitting to Geralt's ministrations and just drifting as the gentle pressure moved over and over his face, and then through his hair where a touch of bruising made him flinch.

"That's better," the witcher said finally. A rough thumb brushed the back of his neck, and Jaskier shivered. "Doublet off."

His hands were steady enough to manage the buttons, though looking down at the splash of blood against the vivid blue made his stomach turn again. Geralt took it from him, set it aside with more care than he usually showed, and looked back at him, a frown suddenly marring his face.

"You're injured."

"What?"

"Your side. Stay still."

Jaskier couldn't help but twist to try and see, but firm hands held him steady at shoulder and hip. "Stay _still_."

White hair brushed softly at his waist as Geralt bent close, and he watched as the Witcher examined him, barely daring to breathe.

Somewhere along the line he'd been caught by a knife, a line of red smeared angrily across the thin skin of his ribcage. His own weapon, presumably, in the tussle. He swallowed hard at the reminder that it might easily have been his thick blood spilled in the forest, Geralt still bound and on his way to being sold. Something about that made him feel better about having killed a man.

Geralt bandaged him with gentle hands, though now he was aware of the wound it burned and stung. When Geralt leaned forward to pass the wrap around his waist to secure it, Jaskier could feel the great heat of him against his chest but resisted the urge to drop his head onto that broad shoulder. The Witcher tied the bandage neatly before offering him a clean tunic from their pack. "Bed. We'll move early before they wake."

"What about your leg?"

"Healing." Said in the tone that implied _it's fine, stop your fretting_.

Belatedly, he remembered his lute and the mistreatment it had received, and crept on trembling legs to where it sat neatly tucked out of the way. Not where it had been so carelessly dropped. He chanced a look over at Geralt, but the Witcher was busying himself with something and didn't make eye contact.

No dents or even a scratch marred the wood, and he patted it gently before reverently tucking it back in the case. Tuning could wait until his hands weren't shaking.

As he staggered back to his bedroll, a large hand caught briefly at his wrist and he looked down to see the hilt of the dagger, freshly clean of any hint of blood.

"This is yours," Geralt said gruffly. Jaskier hesitated ( _he'd killed a man with that weapon_ ) but after a moment took it from his hand and tucked it into the hidden sheath at his belt.

Somehow his bedroll was neatly made despite all that had gone on, and again he glanced at Geralt, who was settling into his meditation position. "You won't sleep? But after the griffin..." The fire-warmed softness was a welcome embrace, and he could feel sleep descending as adrenaline and shock finally faded.

"You took down an armed man while injured, and saved both our lives. I can keep watch."

"Tree couldn't have done that," Jaskier muttered, then shook his head at Geralt's bewilderment. "Never mind."

"Go to sleep, bard. You were brave tonight."

Jaskier closed his eyes. On the backs of his lids, as he raced towards the depths of sleep, danced the afterimages of firelight and golden eyes.


End file.
